Peter Mayle - The Vintage Caper

“Guess so.”

“That’s what I thought. OK, give me whatever details you can about the plane, and the address where you’re staying. I’ll FedEx the prints and anything else I can find. Do I assume it’s urgent? Dumb question. Everything’s urgent.”

Walking back to rejoin the others in the bar, his mind racing, Sam felt the familiar tingle of excitement and impatience that he always felt when jobs started to get interesting. The next step would depend on Philippe, and there was no doubt he was keen to help. But did he have the contacts? And would he be able to twist the necessary arms?

Sam gave them a thumbs-up as he got back to the table. “With a bit of luck, we should have Roth’s prints by tomorrow morning, and maybe something on Reboul’s plane.” He sat down and reached for his glass. “This is where you come in, Philippe. This is where you earn your scoop.” Philippe made an effort to look suitably stern and determined. Sam took a long sip of wine before continuing. “What we have to do next is to check the magnums of Pétrus for prints. It won’t take long, no more than an hour or so, but I can’t do it. If it’s going to be used as evidence, it needs to be done by a pro. Which means the police.” He looked at Philippe, his eyebrows raised. “And we need to get the print expert in and out of the cellar without causing any suspicion. In other words, without Vial knowing. If he smells a rat, we might as well pack up and go home.”

Philippe had been fidgeting in his chair, waiting for his turn to speak. “We might be lucky with the police,” he said. “I have a contact, going back a few years now.” He squinted into the distance, pushing a hand through his hair. “It was when I was taking a look at some of the rackets operated by the Union Corse. They’re the boys from Corsica, a local version of the Mafia. The paper likes to keep an eye on them from time to time. Anyway, they weren’t doing anything out of the ordinary, just the usual stuff: drugs, illegal immigrants from North Africa, extortion down at the docks, protection in the city, that kind of thing.

“In those days there was a club where a lot of them used to go to throw their money around and impress the girls. And it wasn’t just money they threw around. There was plenty of coke and heroin, too.” He stopped to take a copious swig of wine.

“One of the girls-very sweet, very innocent-fell for the wrong guy. He got her on heroin. I often used to see her in the club, and she was a mess. And what made it worse was the way he treated her.” He made a face and shook his head. “I was all set to get the police in and do a big story, and then I found out something that made me think again. It turned out that the girl’s father was a cop-an inspector in the Marseille police department. You can imagine what a story that would have made.

“Well, I decided not to do it. I persuaded the girl to let me take her to a clinic run by a friend of mine, and then I went to see the father. His name’s Andreis. He’s a good man. We still have lunch a couple of times a year. I don’t say we’re close, but I have some credit there.”

This was a side of her louche cousin that Sophie had never seen. “Chapeau , Philippe,” she said. “Good for you. What happened to the girl?”

“It ended well. She married a doctor she met at the clinic, and I’m godfather to their little girl.” Philippe stared at his empty glass with surprise, as though major evaporation had taken place while he wasn’t looking.

Sam poured him some more wine. “Do you think he’d lend us one of his forensic guys for an hour or so?”

“I can ask. But he’ll want to know the background, and I’ll have to tell him.”

Sam shrugged. “That’s fine. We’re not really going to be doing anything illegal. Tell him it’s just a standard check, a routine procedure carried out by a conscientious and discreet insurance company that doesn’t want to cause unnecessary annoyance or embarrassment. That’s why we don’t think it’s worth bothering Reboul. Do you think he’ll buy that? You can promise him that there’ll be no theft, no breaking and entering.” Sam paused to reconsider. “Well, no breaking and entering as long as we can get Vial out of the way for a couple of hours. That’s next on the list. Any ideas?” He raised his glass to Sophie and Philippe. “Here’s to inspiration.”

They parted company for the evening. Sophie wanted to check in with her office before having room service and an early night. Philippe thought he’d see if Inspector Andreis was at home. Sam, with somewhat mixed emotions, was going to call L.A. again and report on progress to Elena Morales. Their last conversation had ended on a distinctly low note. It was time, Sam felt, for some fences to be mended.

When he got through to Elena, he received a monosyllabic, frigid greeting. Now he knew what it felt like being a telemarketer on a bad day. He took a deep breath.

“Elena, I want you to hear me out. First of all, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea about Sophie Costes. She’s been a real help, and she’s had a couple of great ideas.” He might have been talking to Siberia, but at least she hadn’t hung up. “Now, what you won’t find on her C.V. is that she’s planning to get married in the fall. He’s called Arnaud-a nice, middle-aged guy from Bordeaux with an elderly mother and two Labradors named Lafite and Latour. Oh, and a château, apparently, but not a very big one.”

“Is this what you called to tell me?”

Sam detected a hint of climate change coming down the line. “Partly, yes. I mean, I wanted to put the record straight. I didn’t want you to think I was, well, you know…”

Elena let him dangle for a moment or two before replying. “OK, Sam. You’ve made your point.” She sounded almost friendly. “So, how’s it going down there?”

“Promising. I’ll know for sure in a couple of days.” Sam took Elena through what had happened since the first meeting with Reboul: the day with Vial, the discoveries in the cellar, the call to Lieutenant Bookman, and Philippe’s efforts to help in resolving the question of the fingerprints. “In other words,” said Sam as he came to the end of his report, “progress, but nothing definite. Nothing yet for Roth to get excited about.”

At the mention of her client’s name, Elena said something short and sharp in Spanish. It didn’t sound complimentary.

“I’m sure you’re right,” said Sam. “You know, you should get away from him, take a few days off. Spoil yourself. They say Paris is pretty nice in the spring.”

“Let me know about the prints. Oh, and Sam?” Her voice softened. “Thanks for the call.”

She hung up. Diplomatic relations had been reestablished.

Chez Félix, a spacious, well-kept bar on an unremarkable side street, is a brisk two-minute walk from Marseille police headquarters on the Rue de l’Evêché. Thanks to this convenient location, and the added attraction that the bar’s owner is a retired gendarme, Chez Félix has long been a favorite of police officers seeking liquid consolation after a hard day trading punches with the underworld. A popular feature of the bar is the section at the back, which has been divided into three small booths. Here, delicate matters can be discussed in private. It was in one of these booths that Philippe had arranged to meet Inspector Andreis.

The inspector, lean and grizzled, with the watchful eyes of a man who has seen more than his share of trouble, arrived just as Philippe was taking delivery of two glasses of pastis, a squat, potbellied jug of ice cubes and water, and a small saucer of green olives.